Busboy Blunders
by Starlight05
Summary: John has returned to London after his time in Afghanistan and ends up working at a restaurant as a busboy. Sherlock is the head chef with a reputation for being intimidating. Their meeting, however, ends in a way neither of them expected... Restaurant AU. (Previously posted as Busboy)


**In this particular AU, John was a soldier, but not a doctor. So he could break every bone in your body, but not while naming them. I had to manipulate that bit of his background in order to get him into a situation where he and Sherlock would meet in this world.**

 **Also, I don't own Sherlock. *weeps forever***

* * *

The restaurant kitchen bustled with people and was full of the chaotic clatter of utensils, but the general cacophony dropped several decibels as Sherlock pushed his way through the doors. Everyone nearest him gave quick, deferential nods before dropping their gazes. He ignored them as he tied on his apron with an efficient flourish. When he turned back to face the kitchen, most people had their eyes trained on him, waiting for instructions.

He raised his eyebrows. "Why are all of you imbeciles looking at me? We have a busy night; get moving! Don't stand around as if you don't know what you should be doing! If you really don't know, please make your way out the door. Post haste. I haven't time for idiots. Now move!"

In response, the kitchen erupted into motion and noise again. Nodding in satisfaction to himself, Sherlock stepped toward Greg Lestrade, the restaurant owner, who had just entered the kitchen with an order. The slip of paper was passed off from one tan, calloused hand to the other pale, slender one.

"Doing alright?" The same question, every evening just before the dinner rush.

"Obviously." Followed by the same response and brief smirk. This may be Lestrade's restaurant, but the kitchen was Sherlock's domain. Of course he was alright.

This particular night Lestrade lingered, watching as Sherlock barked out the order - two quail, one halibut - and the other chefs - or rather, the dim-witted minions, as Sherlock thought of them - started working in accordance. When the head chef turned around, curls bobbing beneath the white hat he wore, he frowned as he registered his boss' continued presence.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, wiping down his already immaculate work surface with a damp rag.

Lestrade shook his head. "Just wanted to let you know I hired another busboy to replace that bloke you fired last week. He'll also be on dish-washing duty."

"Why should that matter to me? Almost anyone can clear tables and clean plates. Those aren't exactly difficult jobs."

"Well..." Lestrade looked as if he were biting back something he didn't want to say bluntly, but didn't know how else to present. Sherlock stared at him, evaluating silently.

"Why would this new busboy be a problem?" he asked, at a loss, which was an annoyance in itself.

"Just in that... Oh forget it. You'll see. Just keep an eye on him for me, alright? But be nice."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away as more orders came in. "I'm always nice," he snarked. The sound of Lestrade's chuckle, then of the kitchen doors swinging open and shut again, told Sherlock he was once again the most powerful person in the room. Excellent. All was again how it should be.

The next hour or so was filled with nonstop work, during which Sherlock prowled about the room (there was no other word for how he moved), overseeing his sous chefs' methods, correcting where necessary and scolding more often than that. When a more complicated dish was ordered, he went to his own cooking station and prepared it himself. He knew his team wasn't talented enough to pull off half the menu; after all, he was the one who'd designed it. _Every_ piece was his specialty.

At the moment, Sherlock was bent over a miniature soufflé, sliding it onto the plate with a cautious but practiced motion, but he was interrupted when he heard a loud - louder than usual - clang by the door. He glanced up and locked eyes with someone he didn't know and hadn't noticed previously.

The man's blue eyes were apologetic and, judging by the flush on his cheeks, he was evidently quite embarrassed. And he should be, Sherlock thought, watching the man scramble to pick up the dishes he had let tumble from his grip. Luckily, none were broken. Sherlock had insisted to Lestrade they buy the durable kind that resisted a stupid fall more often than not.

He watched the non-dexterous busboy for a moment, noting the shaking in his left hand and the ginger way he moved his right leg. Limp, tremor, obviously a charity case, who likely wouldn't last a week at this rate. Recently returned from military service in... Iraq, perhaps, considering the tan on his hands. From the physical evidence, he likely had PTSD. This was probably the only job he could get. Sherlock allowed himself exactly three seconds of observing this newcomer before dismissing him, then altogether forgetting him as the work consumed his mind once more.

* * *

It wasn't until the end of the night, when most of the kitchen staff had departed, that the new busboy intruded again upon Sherlock's mind.

"Mr. Holmes?" Molly Hooper, one of the waitresses, approached his station timidly.

"What?" he snapped. This was the last dessert before he was finished, and considering the fragility of the sugar sculpture on the cake, he needed to focus.

"It's just... The new busboy..."

"What about him?" In spite of himself, his interest was piqued, and he looked up toward the sink, where the newcomer was supposed to be piling freshly-rinsed plates into the industrial dishwasher. However, he wasn't actually doing that, but was discreetly attempting to bandage a bleeding cut on his left hand, the shattered remains of a small bowl in the sink and on the counter. Sherlock blinked; apparently he had been so deep in his mind he hadn't heard the sound of breaking glass. As he watched, a small droplet of blood slid off the man's finger into the sink.

That was the last straw. Sherlock would have to intervene. "What do you think you're doing?" he called, abandoning the cake and striding toward the busboy angrily. "You'll contaminate the dishes, and Lestrade will not tolerate that. Nor will I, for that matter."

The man turned guiltily toward him, his eyes also showing a bit of panic. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "It was just an accident... I... I'll clean it all up, I promise."

Sherlock growled in frustration and strode toward the sink, intending on draining the bloodied water as quickly as possible. To his surprise, the water was clear of any other dishes, besides the broken fragments of the bowl. He looked up, still frowning. "Well," he snapped, irritation enduring even though some of his ammunition had been yanked away. "Be grateful there weren't other dishes you contaminated just now thanks to your foolishness."

The other man had that look on his face again, just as he had earlier. Red cheeks, frown creasing his forehead. Embarrassment. No, Sherlock realized abruptly. Not embarrassment; not shame. Anger. But it wasn't directed as Sherlock for the scolding. It was directed at himself. Angered then, because of the tremor in his hand, and the problems that resulted.

"Well..." By now, Sherlock was a bit at a loss for words, which was unlike him. Especially because of a mere _busboy_. "You can go."

"What?" John looked startled. "But the dishes..." He glanced at the pile of silverware and the stacks of plates still waiting to be cleaned.

"Just go," Sherlock said dismissively, gesturing. "But I expect to see you here thirty minutes early to ensure these get properly cleaned." After all, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to clean them.

The man looked grateful as he turned toward the door. "Thank you," he said once he had reached the back door. "See you in the morning, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock just nodded in reply and watched him limp away, Molly following as if she were trying to be invisible and as if she hadn't eavesdropped on the entire conversation.

It was only after the door had shut, Sherlock had finished and sent off the last dessert dish, and he too was leaving for the night that he realized he did not know the man's name.

* * *

"Watson!" Sherlock called out the next morning.

He had had to ask Lestrade, who had grinned in altogether too smug a manner, what the new busboy's name was. Lestrade, thanks to his infinite delight at mocking Sherlock, had said at first, "What, you haven't deduced it yet, genius?"

Sherlock had scowled until Lestrade relented. "John Watson. Captain once, apparently, though not anymore. Why?"

Sherlock hadn't replied but instead just stormed back into his kitchen, leaving a chuckling Lestrade behind.

Now, he watched John Watson's head turn at the sound of his name, looking startled. The man had come in thirty minutes early as instructed, though the dishes were done in twenty, a feat which had rather impressed Sherlock in spite of himself.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?" he asked as he approached.

"How is your hand?" Which wasn't what Sherlock had meant to say. It just sort of came out.

Watson appeared as surprised as Sherlock felt. "Fine, thank you. And about last night... You didn't seem to want to hear my apology. But I am sorry. It won't happen again, I swear. I've got it - the tremor, that is - under control."

"You know it's psychosomatic."

The other man blinked. "What is?"

"Your limp," Sherlock gestured. "It's psychosomatic. When you walk, it clearly causes you pain, but when you're standing still, as you are now, it's as if you don't notice the pain at all, as if you've forgotten about it. That tells me the pain goes away entirely unless you're moving, which further tells me it is psychosomatic."

Watson gaped at him. "How do you do that?"

Sherlock smirked a bit. "Observation. Deduction. And that's not all I see."

"Yeah? What else do you see?"

"You're former military. Afghanistan or Iraq, I'd say, last there about eight months ago, judging by the tan on your hands and its amount of fade. Because of the injury to your leg and your hand you've had trouble finding and keeping a job since you've returned, your last job being at a book store as a stocker I believe, which didn't end well because of those very problems. Nothing too serious, but you were slow and clumsy enough that they didn't have much choice but to replace you with the holidays approaching."

He stopped, wondering if he had gone on too long. People didn't always like hearing their lives spelled out, he'd noticed.

But John Watson was staring at him as though Sherlock were the most miraculous thing he'd ever seen. "That's... that's amazing."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, unable to discern if he was being lying to or not. He suspected he wasn't, which was unusual. "Did I get anything wrong?" he asked, unable to help himself.

Watson smiled. "You said the limp was psychosomatic but also that I had an injury there. Which do you think it was?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man's interest. Most would have fled screaming by now. "The injury has evidently healed, but the limp remains as a result of the trauma."

But a look in Watson's eye told him differently. "No," he murmured. "Not the leg. So where were you injured?"

Watson chuckled and tapped his left shoulder in response. "My leg just decided to crap out on me, that's all." He grinned up at Sherlock. "Other than that, though, spot on. It's extraordinary!"

Sherlock blinked. That marked the first time he had received this sort of reaction to his deductions. "Get back to work, Watson," he said rather than continue this increasingly-bewildering conversation, wrenching things back into the realm of the professional. "And know I won't give you another chance, especially if you decide to bleed all over the dishes again."

"Oh, so if I bleed on the food, that's alright then?" Watson tossed out as he stepped around Sherlock toward the sink again.

Sherlock frowned and whirled. "What?" he barked, horrified at the thought.

Watson grinned over his shoulder, a teasing glint in his eye. "I'm kidding, you sod."

The nearest sous chefs glanced up, startled at the exchange. No one spoke to Sherlock Holmes like that. No one.

But to everyone's apparent shock Sherlock smirked, the corners of his normally stern and icy eyes crinkling in amusement. "Out of my sight, Watson. Don't let me catch you slacking off."

He turned and strutted - there was no other word for it - back to his station, leaving John Watson watching and chuckling.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was still in the kitchen by the time John finished the dishes that evening. Without any further bloody mishaps, either, thanks very much. He hung up his apron and spotted the lanky head chef, bent over his spotless station, silhouetted by the now-dimmed lights. He was frowning at a leaf of paper on top of a cutting board. Curious, John approached.

"It's a tentative recipe," Sherlock muttered before John even opened his mouth.

"How did you know I was going to ask that?"

Sherlock snorted. "Obvious." He still didn't look up.

"What's the recipe for?"

"None of your business."

"Could I take a look?"

"No."

"Don't you want someone's feedback?"

"No."

"What if it's a terrible recipe? Surely you need a second opinion on it."

Sherlock chuckled, giving a subtle eye roll. "I've never needed one before. Why should I start now?"

"Okay, but I don't even get to see it? Even if I don't give feedback?" John was trying to sneak a peek over Sherlock's shoulder, but was thus far unsuccessful.

"Do you ever stop talking?" Sherlock sighed, looking up in now-evident irritation. Any good humor toward John from earlier was long gone, replaced by a cold distance.

John raised his eyebrows. "Alright, sorry," he muttered. "Just trying to be friendly."

He turned and headed for the door. In all honesty, it had been too long since he'd had people to talk to. The last job working at the bookstore had been basically wretched, just as Sherlock had said. Here, he was quickly befriending the sweet server Molly and the owner Greg, one of the most cheerful and understanding bosses he had ever had. But then there was Sherlock, the obviously stern head chef who - try as he might - was not nearly as intimidating as certain drill sergeants John had known, and who clearly didn't want anyone to see weakness in him. Instead of discouraging John as it had everyone else, however, Sherlock's performance only made John want to break through that shell and see what was inside.

Maybe not tonight, though. So he left, trying not to feel offended by Sherlock's dismissive snapping.

Perhaps tomorrow would be better, he told himself. He'd try again tomorrow.

But having his back turned meant he missed Sherlock's look of faint guilt as he saw John leaving without a goodbye.

* * *

"Hey, Holmes."

Sherlock turned in confusion as he felt a tap on one shoulder. No one was there. As he looked to the other side, he caught sight of John Watson just in time to see him burst into laughter.

"Wow, I cannot believe you feel for that! What are you, twelve?"

Sherlock felt himself flush. "Obviously I am not," he muttered. "What do you want?"

Watson appeared entirely undeterred by Sherlock's unwelcoming tone. "Well, aren't you sunny today. I was wondering if you'd finished that recipe yet?"

"And who decided that was any of your business?"

Watson just rolled his eyes. "You're still stuck on it, aren't you? And determined not to ask for any help?"

Sherlock knew the man was right, but that didn't mean he wanted to admit it. He just scowled, hoping that would drive the insufferable busboy away. It worked with everyone else, after all.

Watson just grinned in a knowing way. "Fine, whatever," he sad good-naturedly. "You can always ask someone for advice. It won't kill you."

He turned and sauntered off toward the sink to empty his tray so he could accommodate the next group of plates. Sherlock found himself watching him go, annoyed that he was doing so but unable to stop. It was only when Molly burst through the doors with a handful of orders in her fingers that Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie and got down to business.

An hour later, dinner rush was going perfectly, every dish on time, no complaints. Operations were just as they should be, and as they almost always were when Sherlock Holmes was heading the kitchen. Greg had slipped back in at one point to clap Sherlock on the shoulder, lean in, and say, "Keep it up. Tips are out of this world tonight. I might have to take you for a drink after this." Sherlock had barely replied past a grunt of acknowledgement, though inside he was preening. It was rare that they had such a good night, even with their reputation and Sherlock's fame as a chef.

He should have known that their perfect night would not last.

"Sherlock?" Molly approached him meekly. "Someone is asking to speak to the head chef. He says it's urgent."

Sherlock looked up, irritation rising. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. He said only he can tell you."

Something about her expression, and the way she was biting her lip, clued Sherlock in, and he scowled more deeply. "He told you not to tell me who he is, didn't he?"

She grimaced. "Sorry... You know how he is..."

"Never mind, not your fault." He brushed past her, trying not to give into the urge to hide in the freezer. Or maybe to set the building on fire. Anything would be preferable to speaking with his _brother_.

The dining area was clean and crisp as always. Greg worked hard to ensure the place was a well-oiled machine, and his dedication showed. There was a soft but steady thrum of conversation, complemented by the violin music emanating from one corner. Sherlock had composed a few of the pieces, though Greg had hired a live performer for weeknights, Sherlock being much more valuable in the kitchen than out. It would have, however, been an almost welcome break to step out of there to survey the satisfied looks on the customers' faces as they consumed the dishes he had created. The sensation he felt watching them was not unlike what he supposed a king felt when overlooking his domain.

Well, it would have felt that way, if it hadn't been for Mycroft Holmes and his stupid face marring the landscape.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders and strode between tables to stand over his brother. Which was a nice change, as normally their heights were nearly matched. "What?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Such hostility, brother dear. Can a sibling not simply drop by to see how the business is going?"

"A normal sibling can," Sherlock nodded. "A meddling _you_ cannot. What do you want? And why interrupt me here? You know I am busy."

"Well," Mycroft said with an air of addressing a slow child, as he always had with Sherlock. "You wouldn't answer your phone."

"Of course not. As I said, I have been busy and don't have time for your nonsense. Now out with whatever it is; I have my work to return to."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, not subtly. "You need to call Mummy. She's ever so worried. She claims she has not heard from you for months, and-"

"What?" Sherlock hissed, trying to keep his temper in check, considering he was surrounded by customers, and employers didn't like it when their famous head chef began yelling in the middle of the dining area. "You came here, interrupted me whilst I am working, just to tell me I need to call our mother?"

Before Mycroft could reply and defend his frankly ridiculous actions, a loud crash broke the relative calm of the packed restaurant. Sherlock, startled, turned just in time to see Molly, staggering, spill a pitcher full of water over a customer. Wincing, Sherlock took in the scene: Molly, not clumsy by nature, had clearly been thrown off her considerable balance. The pile of dishes on the floor, as well as a plastic tray, pointed to a collision between the person carrying the tray and Molly. No one on staff would be stupid enough to do so on purpose, so it was an accident. And the only person who posed a risk of dropping things and crashing into Molly was...

John Watson.

Who was indeed at the moment scrambling around, frantically picking up fallen dishes and silverware, carefully avoiding the shattered bits of glass from fallen wine glasses. His ears were red, and his forehead was creased. The tremor must have returned, with a true vengeance this time, and caused him to drop his full tray of used dishes, which in turn made Molly trip and spill the water.

All these deductions whirled through Sherlock's mind in instants, and then he was abandoning Mycroft, striding over, and pulling Molly swiftly but gently to her feet. She gave him a grateful look. Sherlock glanced up and saw Greg heading swiftly for a supply closet in the back, likely for a broom. The crisis was probably over. Sherlock would have to tell John to take a break, to get him out of the customer's sights, but-

"Oi!" a shrill voice, tinted with shock, broke the awkward silence permeating the restaurant.

It seemed the crisis was not over.

The woman, utterly soaked from the unfortunate pitcher spill, turned her sodden but infuriated expression to Watson, who seemed to be trying to turn invisible. "You!" the woman snapped, glaring. "Why don't you watch what you're doing? Do you have any idea who I am? If that had been something worse than water, I could have been burned, or seriously wounded! What do you think you were doing?" She had stood up now, expression livid. It might have been threatening had most of her ability to be intimidating been - quite literally - washed away, leaving behind running makeup and damp hair clinging to her forehead.

Undeterred by this, she continued to yell as Watson stood up with his re-gathered tray, barely acknowledging her tirade. "You know, I have it in my mind to sue this place. Who do you think you are, anyway? You can't even clear tables properly! What kind of idiot hired such an incompetent nobody to do this? Where's your manager? I'd like to give him a piece of my-"

Several sentences previous to this, Sherlock had had enough. He stepped over and loomed over the woman - which was a rather satisfying feeling given the circumstances. "Excuse me," he snapped, cutting her off. She shifted her irate gaze onto him, but he spoke again before she could. "This man you are yelling at for what was clearly an accident has been to war. He was nearly killed in defense of this country, and by extension in defense of you. What have you done that makes you so special? What gives you the right to attack him like this?"

The rest of the restaurant seemed to take a collective breath. "Sherlock," Watson muttered warningly, laying a hand on Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock saw the woman's answering slap coming, but he knew if he stopped it, it would only make matters worse. So he let it land, hearing the shocked murmurs of the other restaurant patrons. That was the moment Greg stepped in, and, knowing the much more personable man was now handling matters, Sherlock grasped both Watson's and Molly's arms and dragged them back into the kitchen. He barely glanced at Mycroft as he did so, though he did see the man's exasperated eye roll.

Some of the action had stopped inside the kitchen, due to several of the cooks eavesdropping and spying on the action outside. They fled, however, under Sherlock's withering gaze. A gaze he promptly turned onto the rest of the room. "Back to work," he barked. "If I see any of you looking up from the food, I'll put _you_ on dishwashing duty!"

As the controlled chaos resumed, he continued to pull Molly and Watson to the back of the kitchen, where there was a modicum of privacy. When he stopped, he released their arms, regretting his manhandling a bit as he saw that Molly looked on the verge of tears. "Sherlock-" she began.

"Don't," he cut her off, his voice gentle. "It wasn't your fault. Just go find a clean shirt, you have a bit of food on the sleeve of that one from your fall. Do you need a break?"

She shook her head quickly. "It's fine, I'm fine." She scuttled off, and Sherlock turned to Watson.

He wasn't meeting Sherlock's gaze. "So that's it for me, isn't it?" His question came out more like a statement, but it confused Sherlock.

"What?"

"You said you'd only give me one more chance." Watson reached behind him and started to untie his apron, looking resigned.

But Sherlock froze, the abrupt realization that he wanted Watson to stay slapping him in the face harder than the woman had. Watson was the first person who had complimented rather than insulted him. And more than that, Sherlock had to admit, he was... interesting.

"I did say that," he nodded, seeing Watson's crestfallen look in response. "But I was talking about your position as a busboy specifically. John," he added, testing the name. Too familiar for his usual tastes. But in this case... it felt oddly comfortable.

Watson's, or rather John's, gaze snapped up to meet his. Sherlock had to bite back a smirk at the shock and hope in his eyes. "What?" John asked.

"Well, after defending you so publicly, I can't exactly fire you, can I?" This time, the smile won its battle against Sherlock's will. "And firing an ex-soldier just seems a bit rude. Though please, correct me if I'm wrong. I'm not good at this... socializing thing."

"Wait..." A grin was slowly spreading across John's face. "You aren't firing me?"

"No, and I don't believe Lestrade has any plans to do so either."

"But," John's grin faded. That expression was rather indecisive, it seemed. "How can I possibly keep doing this? I've only been here two days, and already I've hurt myself, broken a bowl and several glasses, knocked over a waitress, and-"

"Oh, I think I have a plan," Sherlock chuckled, feeling strangely pleased with himself. "Let me talk to Lestrade."

John grinned again, fully this time. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded. "Do you think you can handle the dishes?"

"Absolutely," John replied. "But what about clearing tables?"

"I think I can afford to let you off the hook this once. I'll find some idiot to take your place for tonight," he started scanning the kitchen for a likely candidate.

John laughed. "You're a bit of a tyrant to your people," he shook his head. "But I like you."

"Nobody likes me." But John's laughter was infectious, and Sherlock was having a hard time preventing that fact from becoming painfully obvious. "Now get back to work, John Watson."

John, still giggling, headed off toward the sink again. "As you wish, you sod."

Strange how the way John used the word, it was like a term of endearment.

* * *

That night after all the customers had left, Sherlock found himself alone in the kitchen. The incident with the furious woman had been dealt with by Greg's amicable smooth-talking, and all had gone well the rest of the night. Sherlock had also had a chance to speak to Greg in private, and a plan was in place. However, neither had found an opportunity to speak to John about it. Yet. Sherlock intended to change that.

"Sherlock?"

He looked up from hanging up his apron at the sound of his name. "What now?" he sighed as he saw Mycroft peering into the room. "I thought you had left hours ago!"

"I simply wanted to bid you goodnight," his brother smiled indulgently. "And congratulations."

"About what?"

"Your new... pal. The busboy," he said the last word as if it tasted of something bitter.

Sherlock groaned. "This is none of your business."

In response, Mycroft's mouth turned up slightly in a smirk. "Might we expect a happy announcement soon, little brother?"

Moments later, Mycroft's smug and teasing face retreated, luckily. Though that might have been due to dodging the chef's hat Sherlock had chucked at him.

He turned back to the kitchen, wondering where John had gone. He rather wanted to explain the plan he and Lestrade had formed, but it seemed it would have to wait until morning.

As Sherlock was heading out the doors, he spotted the new recipe he had been working on. But something was different. He snatched it up and inspected it. Someone had annotated it, adjusting measurements and cooking times, even adding or substituting several of the ingredients. At the bottom of the page read the message:

 _Thanks for what you did tonight. Hope you don't mind feedback on this. I thought it was the least I could do. - John_

* * *

John was climbing the stairs down to the Tube station nearest the restaurant when his mobile started buzzing.

"Hello?"

"You can cook?" Sherlock's voice was a bit strained.

"Sherlock?"

"Obviously. You can _cook_?"

"How did you get my number?"

"Got it from Lestrade. John! You can _cook_?!"

"I take it you found the recipe."

"Yes, obviously!" Sherlock sounded exasperated. "You meddled with my possessions!"

"Look, I'm sorry," John said quickly. "I just wanted to do something for you after you defended me tonight. You know, to thank you. For that, and for not firing me."

"Did it occur to you that editing my recipe could have made me highly irritated?"

Something in Sherlock's voice didn't exactly imply irritated, though. "Are you?"

"What? Well... No." The chef sounded a bit sheepish. "I'm not."

John smirked in triumph. "You liked my edits, didn't you, Sherlock?"

The answer took a moment, and when Sherlock did speak again, he sounded disgruntled. "Yes."

"Ha," John said a bit smugly, unable to resist now. "You're used to being the only smart person in the room, aren't you?"

"I know people other besides myself can cook. I just... Am not used to others being able to understand the recipes I come up with. I'm... unconventional."

Yeah, to say the least, John thought. "Well I can't say I would have never come up with that recipe myself, but I could add to it and adjust once I saw where you were going with it. It's brilliant, Sherlock, really."

"... Thank you."

John smiled. "Well, see you in the morning."

"Yes," Sherlock said, sounding distracted now, like the cogs in his mind were working themselves up to overdrive again. Just like at work, when he was in his zone. John had noticed, even in the short time working with the man. No one else John had ever known had been so intense and passionate. It was fascinating. "I've got to call Lestrade," Sherlock murmured, almost to himself.

"It's past eleven!"

"Goodnight, John."

He hung up, leaving John to shake his head, a bit bemused and a lot amused.

No, this job definitely wasn't bad at all.

* * *

 _One month later..._

John was flourishing in his new position, Sherlock noted, peering through the window in the kitchen doors. He was smiling and at ease, his limp almost entirely imperceptible. Give Sherlock a few more days and it was sure to be gone altogether. As for the tremor, he hadn't seen that at all since the day of the pitcher accident. Clearly, being a host rather than a busboy suited him.

As did consulting with Sherlock on the new spring menu.

John looked up, as if sensing Sherlock's gaze, and winked. "Get back to work, you sod," he mouthed.

Despite shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Sherlock couldn't help but smile back at him. He then turned back to the kitchen and inhaled the aromas of his newest addition to the restaurant's repertoire. Chicken and herbs - with that glaze especially - John had almost single-handedly invented, with the grilled vegetables and couscous Sherlock had masterminded. Though a simple concept overall, it had a unique signature and was not anything anyone else had ever thought of before.

Sherlock might even consider it his best work yet.

And with John's position change had come another layer of surprise prestige when the new item had been introduced to the ravenous public. It was the month's special, but instead of Sherlock's name on the board as creator, John's was. Soon it would be added to the season's menu, along with the other dishes he and Sherlock were working on.

And quietly locked away in Sherlock's mind palace was the look of emotional astonishment that had appeared on John's face when he had first seen the sign.

Sherlock headed back to his station, intending to bring himself back to reality and away from his reflections, when he noticed a new piece of paper on top of his cutting board.

A dessert recipe. Good heavens, was John fancying himself a pastry chef now as well?

Smiling to himself, Sherlock leaned on his countertop and began to read.

 _"Sodding Pudding" is a rubbish name, I know. But it's named after my insane boss, so what can one do?_

Sherlock ignored the strange looks sent his way as he burst out laughing.

* * *

 **I've never been a server, but I used to be a cashier in a department store and thus learned that people can be horrible beasts sometimes. While the lady who goes after John is a total caricature, she is not unlike some real life people. Please don't be that lady, guys. It's no fun for anyone. [PSA/rant endeth]**

 **Oh, and I was deliberately vague-ish on the recipe because I can barely make cereal...**

 **Thanks for reading! If you have time, please leave a comment; they are my lifeblood.**

 **Also, shout out to the guest, SkylarkianSongs, who drowned me in a glorious rain of (so many!) reviews - thank you thank you thank you! Your comments are so much appreciated; they made my day :)**

 **Next story: Caffeine**


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